


The Boy Who Found His Name

by leaves_girl



Category: Dark Angel
Genre: Gen, Imprinting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaves_girl/pseuds/leaves_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 12 Days fest at jam_pony_fic prompt "Alec/Logan accidental imprinting"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Found His Name

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to mark this as Teen, but the italicized portions have strong language and lewd allusions to well-accepted falconry practices, so be warned. (And if you think it deserves a higher rating, let me know.)
> 
>  
> 
> This is set two years before the start of the show, and assumes that a lot of pre-series events happened at almost exactly the same time.

Since the pulse, good Samaritans had gone the way of lone rangers and white knights. People still meant well, still wished they could look out for each other, but when everyone had so little, what little they had became much more important. No one gave away their hard-earned soup or bread anymore. Most wouldn’t even spare their time, couldn’t afford to when every second was spent working to live or working to dull their grief. As for people willing to risk their lives to make the world better, well, Logan knew he was a member of a dying breed. But not the very last, he reminded himself.

Daisuke Yamashiro was currently risking his life to prevent what had happened to his daughter from ever happening again. His information on the Worthfall Syndicate, spread through an Eyes-only broadcast, could shame the police into shutting the group down once and for all.

The quiet click behind him changed everything.

Logan began to turn slowly, expecting to find a gun pointed at his chest. Two soft thumps had him grabbing for his stun gun and jerking to face the threat. Instead he found two downed men and a teenage boy rifling through their pockets.

He had short, light hair, clear skin, and remarkably even features. He might have been eighteen or so, but he seemed to have done well enough for himself. His clothes were dark and nondescript, but well fitting and clean, so the boy wasn’t homeless or jobless. His posture said military. Maybe a police recruit, still new enough to think of himself and his brothers-in-arms as a force of justice.

Then the stranger took the cash from both men’s wallets and tucked it into a backpack, shattering Logan’s suppositions. He held out the empty wallets to Logan. “Can you use these?” he asked shyly, almost as though seeking Logan’s approval.

Logan dredged up a smile as he took the wallets, giving himself a mental slap. This teenager was stealing from trusted underlings of Jacob T. Worthfall, men who were no doubt guilty of heinous crimes themselves. Logan had no right to judge, especially not when the boy had just saved him and Mr. Yamashiro from almost certain death.

Logan meant to thank him, but what came out was “We need to get my friend somewhere safe.” The young man saluted, and led the way to a warehouse that was packed with friendly squatters who were willing to sell them soup and bread. Logan only frowned for a moment at seeing their savior pay for the meal with stolen money before reminding himself to get off his high horse. It was clear the boy had seen him, though.

“I’ll be fine, son.” Logan turned his attention to Mr. Yamashiro, who had accepted the soup but was now shrugging off his guiding hand. “What’ll they do, kill me? I would never have come to you if I had anything left to loose.”

When he looked back up, the boy was gone.

* * *

_I might have a subject for that test you wanted._

_An anomaly?_

_Nope. Even better: he’s an X5._

_You’re having me on._

_Seriously._

_How are we supposed to get one of those?_

_X5-494’s scheduled for psy-ops next week_.

_Next week? Great idea, Einstein. Let’s dope him up with chemicals and re-wire his brain just in time for his psych test. You think Lydecker won’t notice?_

_I think Lydecker won’t care._

_Lydecker always cares._

_Not this time: Poor bastard went rogue on mission. Word is he saved someone Manticore wanted exploded._

_Poor bastard. Still, they spent a lot of money and time creating him. Sure, they’ll make him suffer, but I highly doubt they’ll toss him on the scrap heap._

_Not just for that, no. Did you see the news Tuesday, dead body in Austin with no teeth?_

_So? Wait, wasn’t there one in Baton Rouge a while back?_

_Yep. Turns out both of them had a barcode._

_Damn. Escapees?_

_The same barcode. Which is from one of the fugees, as a matter of fact. 493._

_As in…_

_Exactly. 494 already got his head shrunk back in ’09 after his double ran off. Now it turns out the twin’s a genuine psycho, killing people, pulling out their teeth, and writing his name on the bodies. And just as the brass find out about 493, 494 goes rogue._

_So you’re saying…_

_I scheduled you for the first day of psy-op. As far as anyone knows, you’re just loosening him up for the big Q &A. You could probably cut out his neo-cortex and replace it with a plastic spoon, and they’d just say, “So that’s why he’s so messed up.”_

_I take back every_ _derogatory thing I ever said about you. You’re a genius_.

* * *

The next time Logan saw the boy, he felt like an even bigger jerk. In daylight, it was clear that the stranger’s clothes were dirty and torn, and he detected the faint, rank odor of hard work mixed with no safe place to wash. Either the boy’s luck had taken a very harsh turn in the past two days, or Logan had severely misjudged him.

Just as an extra kick to the metaphorical puppy, the boy had brought information for Eyes Only, glossy surveillance photos of girls being loaded onto a truck, another of one of those girls cowering under the police chief’s arm as he tightly gripped he wrist, followed by a shot of a notable businessman kissing one of the girls on the shoulder as she cried. God, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “Where did you get these?”

The boy frowned. “Are the locations not clear enough? I can take more, if you need them.”

Logan blinked. “You took these yourself? What if they’d seen you? And a camera this high quality…even developing the film must have cost…” He felt a blush burning his cheeks. “Listen, last time we met, I might have given you the wrong idea. The people you’re stealing from, and the way you’re using the money…I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, and I’m sorry for giving you the impression that I did.”

The boy frowned like he was putting together a puzzle. “So it’s alright to take things from people who don’t deserve them, as long as you really need them?” he clarified.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying.” He looked away, rubbing the back of his head. “Not that you have to care what I think. I mean, all my money came from my parents, so I don’t exactly have the right to judge.”

When he looked back, the boy was gone again.

Logan realized he still hadn’t thanked him.

* * *

_What do you even need Dr. Strangelove for?_

_Could you not call him that?_

_If the psychosis fits…_

_He’s at the cutting edge of avian-human electrochemical neurological parallels._

_Because he’s the only one who wants to study it. I hear he was banned from the premises for training his birds to have sex with his hat._

_It’s a perfectly accepted falconry practice when breeding two falcons that have been raised in captivity for the handler to…_

_Dude’s birds fucked his hat, while it was on his head. You can’t tell me that that’s natural._

_How do you even find out about this stuff?_

_I gossip. And eavesdrop. And stalk. And hack into secure files. And blackmail. As vices go, it’s still not as bad as bird molesting._

_Would you let it go? We need him. I can whip up a dissociative fugue no problem, but if we’re aiming for fast, efficient reprogramming, he’s our guy._

_Did you not hear me when I told you the man was banned from the premises?_

_Yeah?_

_And we both know you’ll be spending the next six days reprogramming your tabula rasa template to automatically self-calibrate based on MR input. No way you’ll have time to set it up yourself on site._

_So?_

_So, you won’t have time to go get his code from him, and he won’t be allowed to bring it to you. Also, you can’t send it electronically. The brass monitors downloads higher than 10 KB._

_I’m sure you’re exaggerating._

_I’m sure I won’t take that chance. No emails. And I know they monitor bandwidth._

_Just get me in touch with him. He and I can figure something out from there._

_You’re not sending a thumb drive by currier, either._

_Tell you what, since you’re so paranoid about modern routes of communication, I’ll go write him a letter, and you can send it by passenger pigeon._

_To that sicko?_ _You must be joking_.

* * *

Since the pulse, lunch at Gianni’s had become an elite indulgence. The sandwiches cost more than the average family made in a day, and the coffees were twice as expensive. Still, the bistro’s entire west wall was a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Seattle’s only remaining public park, and some days Logan couldn’t resist.

It was a surprise to catch sight of his maybe-homeless sometimes-savior at a nearby table. The boy had cleaned up well, though. Logan owned a very similar blue dress-shirt, had in fact worn it earlier that week. None of the high-class patrons showed any hint of noticing the imposter in their midst. His good table manners didn’t hurt.

Logan pensively took a bite of his Panini. What could the young man be doing here? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy take a careful bite of his own sandwich.

As Logan washed down the bite with a sip of tea, he noticed the boy lifting his own glass. He frowned.

Logan raised his Panini again with his left hand. The boy raised his sandwich with his left hand. Logan took a large bite. The boy’s bite was so large that he had trouble swallowing, and he ended up with mustard smeared on his cheek. Logan raised a napkin to his own cheek and the boy followed suit.

With a disbelieving chuckle, Logan rose and took his meal to the boy’s table. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Of course not.” His new tablemate seemed genuinely confused by the question.

As Logan cast about for something to say, he realized that there was something he had been meaning to tell the young man for nearly a week. “I still haven’t thanked you for taking out those men the other day, or for the photos. You saved a lot of lives, mine included, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” The boy discretely beamed, sitting even straighter if that was possible and letting a tiny smile curve the corner of his mouth. He looked at Logan expectantly, making the man search for his lines. “Is there any way I can repay you?” he guessed, knowing immediately that it was the wrong thing to say by the small slump of his acquaintance’s shoulders.

“You never ask for anything when you help people,” the young man announced dejectedly. “I’ve watched.”

Logan was immediately reminded of his many theories as to where the boy had come from, how he had dealt with Worthfall’s underlings so quickly, how he had taken the photos so discretely, and why he was helping with the Eyes Only mission. Maybe he was a government agent sent by America’s Last Honest Senator with a mission of helping Logan fight corruption in Seattle. Maybe he was a homeless voyeur-thief with an impeccable sense of timing. Maybe he was just a guy who had been in the wrong place at the right time and decided to help, though Logan sincerely doubted this last scenario.

“Can I ask you a question?”

The mysterious stranger seemed hesitant to interrupt Logan’s thoughts, so he made sure to put on his most encouraging smile before answering, “Go ahead.” Stalker behavior aside, the boy had been nothing but helpful so far.

“Why are you called ‘Eyes Only’? I mean you see things, sure, but plenty of people do. You’re the only one who talks about it, though. I think your voice is just as important as your eyes.”

Logan wavered between laughing uncomfortably and being sincerely touched. “And what do they call you?” he asked.

The boy shrugged. “I’m still deciding.”

“How about your real name, then?” He expected it to be an easy question.

Instead, the teen’s brow furrowed for a moment before clearing in understanding. “You mean like Logan Cale?” He rubbed at the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture that drew Logan’s attention to a small black tattoo. “I don’t have a name like that.”

It was a ridiculous statement, but Logan found himself remembering a long-dismissed story involving people with barcodes on the back of their necks. So he just nodded like The Man With No Name actually existed outside of spaghetti westerns, and invited the boy back to his apartment to talk some more.

After all, Logan still believed in innocents, good Samaritans, and heroes. Next to all that, genetically engineered super-soldiers were downright mundane.

* * *

_You actually came to watch? I thought you’d be in meetings all day, making alibis in case something goes wrong._

_I decided that there’s less chance of something going wrong if I keep an eye on you. How’s it going?_

_494 arrived at 10 sharp. I administered the Norsynephrine cocktail as an aerosol, and tweaked the tabula rasa program to a combination of both light and sound. That way, I didn’t need restraints. More useful in a combat situation._

_What if it’s not as effective?_

_Worked like a charm. At one minute, fifteen seconds, subject showed obvious signs of disorientation, which progressed almost immediately to incapacitation and severe discomfort._

_Meaning?_

_He stumbled around a little and then went to sit in a corner. He obviously didn’t like the program, kept flinching and shaking his head, but within five minutes he was exhibiting classic signs of…he was rocking back and forth, staring straight ahead. Honestly, it’s like you never read my memos._

_I read the start. Would’ve read more if they weren’t dissertation-length and written in medicalese._

_I thought you said the brass read anything over 10 KB._

_They must always fall asleep halfway through yours._

_As I was saying, 494 exhibited classic tabula rasa disassociatory behavior after five minutes._

_Is disassociatory even a word? I swear you’re doing it on purpose._

_I am now. Future studies will be needed to determine whether the rapidity of this method can yield as effective of a base, but the full time has been utilized in this instance so as to accommodate specifications of the imprint delivery system._

_So you think he was under in the first five minutes but drew it out for Dr. Strangelove?_

_The tabula rasa program ran for one hour, sixteen minutes, followed by the fourteen-minute primer we are currently observing._

_Primer? When’s the imprint?_

_Whenever we open the door. First person our little duckling sees, that’s his new mama. It’ll be a while before the disorientation wears off, but I figure if he starts sneaking out of his cell to see me, we’ll know it took._

_Neat. So why is he looking at the ceiling like that?_

_He’s looking at the mounted TV. Brady installed it for me._

_You’re making him watch 7th Heaven reruns?_

_Days of Our Lives, actually._

_Won’t that mess with the imprint?_

_It is the imprint, well, the primer. We’re the imprint, remember._

_I’m sorry, did you just imply that our X5’s mind is being primed by a soap opera?_

_The doc knows a guy at the broadcasting studio who lent him the master copy of today’s episode for a few hours. After a little splicing, the doc gave it back. I tuned in to the channel, the studio played the tape, and voila, instant programming for 494._

_Are you insane?!_

_He couldn’t come here, I couldn’t go there, you won’t let us use a courier or any electronic messaging, and the code was too big to send over phone lines. What did you expect us to do?_

_Meet at a park bench and do a trade-off like any civilized pair of criminals._

_Oh. Yes, I suppose that would have been easier._

_I’m pulling the plug._

_Are you crazy? It’ll take months for you to find me another test subject, and we know it won’t be an X-series._

_Who said anything about doing this again? Heck, we’ll be lucky just to survive the fallout of your little primetime debut._

_Were you genetically engineered to worry or something? First off, 11:16 to 11:30 is hardly primetime. Secondly, all anyone will see is static interrupting the signal, same as happens a hundred times a week for one reason or another._

_There are plenty of folks who catch their soaps on lunch break. What happens when they start following each other around in neat little lines?_

_How many times do I have to tell you: that’s not how it works. Besides, without the fugue, the primer shouldn’t affect them. They’re sort of the control group._

_You think no one will complain about the static, maybe do a little digging? The least he could have done is hide the code in the episode, a flicker here and there maybe._

_And risk 494 imprinting on Deidre Hall?_

_What?_

_I told you: first face he sees._

_Well that’s just fantastic. What happens when someone at the studio notices the static and switches the tape?_

_The doc is sure his friend will let it play through. Apparently, the guy’s roommate loves the show, and the two don’t get along._

_Wow. What a rock-solid vow of collaboration._

_No need to get sarcastic._

_What happens if everything goes right, and the primer plays the whole time? At 11:30, when they switch to sponsors…_

_The TV will shut off automatically._

_Part of your program?_

_Oh. That would have made sense._

_So how did you set it?_

_Hooked the cord to my mom’s Christmas tree timer. It turned the TV on at 11:16, and will cut the power at 11:30. They’re ingenious devices, really._

_Forget this. I’m opening the door now._

_You can’t go in there!_

_The last minute and a half can’t be that integral, and this way I can be the first thing he sees. Then I can shut off the TV and go somewhere quiet to practice my shocked-and-appalled face for when you get dragged up on charges._

_But 494’s getting oxytocin and dopamine right now._

_I don’t care._

_As a vapor, through the vents. You open that door, and either you close the door behind you and go to your happy place before you get near the TV, or you leave the door open and mess up everyone in this building enough to guarantee an investigation._

_You’re exaggerating._

_You’re willing to risk it?_ _Just wait one more minute, and we’ll have done this right_.

_**This is a streaming freedom video bulletin. It cannot be traced, it cannot be stopped, and it is the only free voice left in this city.** _

* * *

He remembered pain: harsh flashing lights and an electronic screeching that seemed to crawl in through his ears and eat away his insides until he was hollow. He remembered how lonely he had been once they scraped out everyone he’d ever met. They’d gone deeper, then, taking away everything he ever did. It was lonely, he remembered, to not even recognize himself.

Mostly he remembered the broadcast, though. There had been unblinking eyes, and a calm, sure voice, and the tender relief of knowing someone again. It had taken hours for him to untangle the words buzzing around inside of him, but he kept every one, grateful not to be empty anymore. He liked remembering that part, even though Logan seemed uncomfortable hearing about it.

Logan wanted to hear about Before, so he dutifully dredged up a few memories: an older man dressed in black, wavering above him through the water, and a crying girl disappearing into flames. It hurt, a lot, but he did it because Logan asked.

He’d wanted to be named Landon, “from the hill,” because it fit with Logan, “from the hollow.” When he’d told that to Logan, the man had gone quiet for a minute. “Seems like you’re giving up on wherever you’re from,” he’d finally replied, voice soft and eyes sad. “Who do you want to be now?”

“Someone who helps people.” The ‘just like you’ stayed behind his teeth, but they both heard it.

“Well then,” Logan sat down in front of his computer, back facing the room, keys clacking as he took a moment to compose himself. “Seems we have a few contenders. Cuidightheach means ‘helpful,’ Nasir means ‘to help’, and Alexander means ‘defender of man.’”

“Cuidightheach,” he read, glancing over Logan’s shoulder. “It says it’s old Irish. That’s Gaelic, right?” Like Logan, echoed unsaid.

“Right, but Alexander’s been used all over the globe for ages. There are regional variations including,” Logan fell to a moment of furious typing, “Here. Alec is the Scottish nickname for Alexander.”

“You really want me to be Alec?”

“Please? I’m not sure I can pronounce Cuidightheach on a regular basis.”

He nodded. His mind sometimes whispered to him that he was just a long string of numbers, or a stolen name that sounded of music and tasted like betrayal. ‘Defender of man’ was better.

When his IDs came, reading ‘Alec Cale,’ neither of them mentioned it.

* * *

_Did you hear 494 escaped?_

_Why are you talking to me?_

_It happened the third day of his psy-ops eval. Strange, the data they managed to get from him._

_Shut up before you get us literally fired._

_If you hadn’t used an open television signal…_

_If you hadn’t picked an X5, I would have been perfectly happy to grab an anomaly and go experiment at a secure location, no television needed._

_Difference being, my part of the plan went off without a hitch. Party line is that 494’s got the same abnormality as 493. Standing orders are to terminate on sight._

_Lydecker ordered that?_

_Madame X did._

_So, we got away with it?_

_Scot-free._

_What were you saying about the data?_

_I’ll have you look at a copy to be sure, but I think the imprint worked._

_Really? I mean, of course it worked. How soon until you can get a hold of an anomaly for me?_

_I don’t know. 494 sort of fell in our laps._

_Where do you think he is right now?_

_Having sex with Eyes Only, probably._

_Oh, come on! Haven’t you ever heard of the Westermarck Effect?_

_That applies to humans, not avians._

_X5-494 is not a bird!_

_Did you tell that to Dr. Strangelove?_

* * *

It started as a joke. Logan had looked so guilty, asking Alec to go on a mission when he knew Alec would agree, that instead he had shrugged and asked, “What’s in it for me?” And Logan had smiled so much and laughed so hard that Alec had never taken it back.

He cultivated an obsession with old movies, knowing that Logan preferred books. He went out and met new people. He loosened his posture and sharpened his tongue, and soon they were both pretending that he was this other person, this wisecracking, happy-go-lucky guy who could only ever manage to behave himself on missions. It was second nature. It was fun.

It wasn’t how Logan acted, and a small part of Alec still insisted that made it wrong. Still, having an alter ego was part of the older man’s modus operandi. Logan became Eyes Only to help people, and Alec became Extra Annoying to help Logan.

He could tell it had scared Logan, how much Alec loved him. Sometimes it scared Alec, too. Still, they helped each other and made each other happy, and it was a better life than Alec could have ever expected. He might not remember much about his old life, but he remembered that.


End file.
